


With a Whisky in Hand (And Perhaps Some Divine Plan)

by OzQueen



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Angst, Canon Related, Drinking, Gen, Missing Scene, episode: s02e07 - blood at the wheel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-16
Updated: 2015-12-16
Packaged: 2018-05-07 01:51:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5439071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OzQueen/pseuds/OzQueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mac shows up at Jack's with a bottle of whisky and very little patience.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With a Whisky in Hand (And Perhaps Some Divine Plan)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lollard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lollard/gifts).



> Oh my goodness, SweeneyAgonistes, thank you for such a wonderful yuletide letter!
> 
> True story: I did not offer Miss Fisher. I offered True Detective, and I dilly-dallyed between the two fandoms for quite some time before I finally decided I couldn't turn down the thought of Jack and Mac together. 
> 
> I hope this works for you! I have never written Miss Fisher fic before, so I'm a little nervous. I had so much fun though! I hope the rest of your yuletide is wonderful and you have a very happy Christmas.
> 
> -
> 
> A missing scene/alternate canon between season two's "Blood at the Wheel" and "The Blood of Juana the Mad". Spoilers for Blood at the Wheel in particular, but you're safe for everything else, I think.

* * *

 

 

The knock on his door is loud and impatient. Jack startles at the sound of it, his fingers slipping on the smooth piano keys. He pauses for a moment, the house silent and still around him, dust motes floating in the shaft of late sunlight pouring through the window.

His heartbeat has picked up in nervous anticipation. _Phryne_ , he thinks anxiously, curling his fingers away from the piano.

But he hears the letterbox snap open, and the voice does not belong to Miss Fisher. "I know you're in there, Inspector!"

Unsure if he's relieved or disappointed, Jack opens his front door to find Doctor MacMillan wearing well-cut trousers and a tweed hat, a sharp look in her eye.

"I want a word with you," she says.

Jack hesitates, not ready with an excuse, and she holds up a bottle of whisky. "Look," she says, delaying his efforts at denying her entry. "I even brought you a bribe."

Jack raises his eyebrows. "I don't take bribes."

She glances at the bottle in her hand, and back to him. "A medicinal necessity?"

He opens and closes his mouth like a goldfish.

"Surely you need one after this week," she says, and she stops waiting for him to step aside, simply striding past him into his front hall. "I damn well do."

Jack resigns himself to his fate and closes the door after her.

"Phryne tells me you're avoiding her," she calls over her shoulder, marching ahead of him to the sitting room. "Glasses?"

Jack rubs a thumb across his brow and follows her. "On the sideboard."

He watches rather helplessly as she pours out two hefty drinks. His sitting room is dusty and there are several old newspapers folded messily on the floor beside his chair. He glances guiltily at the piles of books on the sideboard and the windowsill; books he hasn't had the time to find shelves for; untidiness he has become accustomed to.

Mac holds a glass out to him. "Here's to the end of one hell of a week," she says.

They knock glasses, and Jack is a little alarmed by the large swig she takes.

"Drink up, Inspector," she orders, slinging herself into his favourite armchair and crossing one leg over the other. Her hat has been dropped on the sideboard next to the bottle of whisky, and she takes a moment to tweak the pins in her hair, her mouth a thin line of irritation.

Jack sits opposite her, feeling uneasy.

"Well?" she asks, looking at him expectantly.

She reminds him of his mother suddenly; there's something familiar in the stern look on her face — _What have you got to say for yourself, Jack? —_ and he finds himself resenting her for it.

"Is it really any of your business?" he asks, already knowing she won't take his efforts at rebuttal or resistance well.

She glances down at her trimmed fingernails and tilts her glass, letting the liquid roll from side to side. "I should say so. Phryne's completely miserable. Not that she'll admit it in those words, exactly."

There's a very small part of Jack that feels relieved at the thought of Phryne being just as unhappy as he is about their current situation. He doesn't _want_ her to be unhappy, but it's slightly comforting to know that perhaps he means enough to her that the separation has affected her so.

He takes a large swallow of whisky. "I…" he stops and looks down at his glass in surprise. The whisky is much better than anything he could ever buy for himself. His next swallow is more cautious, savouring the taste rather than chasing a foolish notion of bravery he might find at the bottom.

Mac's expression is one of smug satisfaction. "It was a birthday gift from Phryne," she says. "I couldn't stand the thought of only pouring it into one glass. It ought to be shared."

He's not sure what to say. "Are you sure I'm the one you want to share it with?"

"It seemed fitting," she says. "I'm sure Phryne would be pleased to know we're enjoying it together."

There really is no avoiding the subject. Jack frowns down at his drink.

"And," Mac remarks lightly, "I've come to think a lot of you, Jack. You're a good man."

"You're trying to flatter me, doctor."

There's a twinkle in her eye. "Maybe."

Confronted by the pressure to admit to why he's avoiding Phryne, Jack finds himself humiliated by his own feelings. _I thought she was dead_ seems easily countered by the phrase _Well, she isn't._

"Gertie's accident," he says eventually, rubbing his thumb against a chip in the rim of his glass. "I thought it was Phryne."

Mac gazes at him. "That must have been quite a shock."

"I told her I found it unbearable." His voice is soft and he can't meet her eyes.

His confession had been as close as he could come at the time to cleanly admitting how he feels about Phryne Fisher, and it hadn't ended as he'd hoped. There had been no declarations of fondness or transparent desires to change what they had between them.

Instead, Phryne had spoken of what they achieved together, and it seemed to Jack what she meant was solving cases and finding answers.

He has been compartmentalised into a neat arrangement of advantages to be used.

"What did Phryne say to that?" Mac asks, pulling him from his thoughts.

"She thought I was asking her to slow down." He twists his mouth into a bitter smile. "As though I would take on a challenge so futile."

"She does have a tendency to throw herself into things head first," Mac says. "Of course any sensible person would have the occasional concern for her welfare."

"Occasional." His voice is dry.

"She can take care of herself."

"Not all the time," Jack says, and his voice is louder than he meant it to be. "She's reckless and hot-headed, and sooner or later her luck is going to run out." He looks away. "I can't be there when that happens."

"Inspector," Mac says sharply, "you and I both know that the world is full enough of unpredictability that even the most cautious person can drop dead in the blink of an eye. My grandfather took a spoonful of health tonic every day for his own, quote, vitality," her eyes roll, "and he was killed after he was kicked in the head by a cart horse. A dear friend of mine died of an unpredictable stroke in her forties. And I knew a man who fell down a mine shaft." She shifts in her seat. "Certainly, he was drunk at the time, but the fact remains, accidents happen."

"Most accidents can be avoided," Jack says stubbornly.

Mac flops back against the chair and holds her empty glass towards him. "Let's say you're right, and her luck runs out."

He takes the glass from her hand and pours another slug of whisky from the bottle. He adds an extra mouthful to his own glass for good measure.

"Will you feel better about it if you haven't been to any of her dinner parties? Will you feel better if you haven't seen her face in years?"

Jack stands by the window, gazing out at his untidy garden, unable to answer. He tries to gather his thoughts together, but the cool resolution he'd been feeling won't come back now. He's sure Mac is right, although _choosing_ to leave Phryne seems a damn sight better than reaching the end any other way. 

"Well?" Mac asks, tearing him from his efforts at distraction.

"No," he admits quietly. "I won't feel better."

"Then why torture yourself?" Her voice is kind. "I'm sure we share a similar burden, Inspector, in that sometimes our days can be quite grim."

He looks at her out of the corner of his eye, and she grins at him.

"I'll take whatever frivolity I can get," she adds.

"I'm not sure frivolous is the most accurate term for Miss Fisher," he says, turning away from the window to face her again.

"Phryne is an excellent provider of frivolity when it's needed," Mac says. "She — unlike others — is intelligent enough to know life can't be all rules and seriousness."

"Your insults are losing their subtlety, Doctor MacMillan."

Mac holds up her hands as though to indicate surrender.

Jack sits opposite her again and rubs a hand over his face. "She'll forget me soon enough."

Mac looks appalled. "Do you think so little of yourself?" she asks. "Jack, Phryne really does think the world of you, you know. And I thought… I mean, how can you be so willing to hurt her?"

"I don't want to hurt her," he says, feeling irritable. The thought of Phryne sitting and pining for him is almost laughable. He has already convinced himself she's filled his absence with a new distraction.

"You're part of her family, you know," Mac says. She's already made good headway on her second glass, and Jack hurries to catch up. "Phryne's had enough loss. She doesn't need to lose you too."

"Well, I can't…" The whisky trips the words around in his mouth. "I can't lose her, either. And I will, eventually. She's a fuse, and fuses burn out."

"What a load of rot," Mac retorts, narrowing her eyes at him. "I never took you for a coward, Jack Robinson."

He can't bring himself to argue.

"Yes, she's headstrong, and impulsive, and self-preservation doesn't appear to be high on her list of priorities." Mac raises her eyebrows and looks down at the bottom of her glass. "Quite frankly, she's bloody infuriating sometimes."

"Hm," Jack says quietly, swallowing the last of his whisky.

"But she's my best friend. The love of my life. I can't let this go, Jack. Not when I know she's hurting. I won't let you do it."

"It's done." His voice is low.

"Rubbish."

"It's done, I can't do it, Elizabeth." He rubs his brow and looks at her under the shadow of his hand. "Even when I was young — I wanted a good job and a home and a wife. Children." He can't keep the bitterness from his voice. "Life hasn't turned out the way I wanted it to. And Phryne… she's not… she's not the kind of woman who fits into any of the things I imagined."

Mac's lips are thin. "Men," she mutters.

He holds his glass towards her in response, and she takes it and clunks it down on top of the sideboard, pouring him another.

"So you're attempting enough self-preservation for the both of you, then?" she asks. "You'll build those walls up so the big bad terrors in life can't get at you?"

"I've seen enough big bad terrors," Jack says quietly. "I don't want to be called out on a case and find Phryne's body. I was…" He takes his glass back into his hand and looks up at her. "I can't forget that feeling. I won't subject myself to the chance of that again."

He tries not to think about Phryne's firm words.  _I am who I am, Jack._

Leaving her won't slow her down. Leaving her won't change any chance of approaching that motor car, legs made of lead, terrified of what he's going to see. All he can hope for is a worthy shield forged by distance; something to dull the blow.

He can't control Phryne, but he can control  _this_. 

They're both silent for a while, listening to the clock on the mantel tick and the street noise of traffic and horses passing along the street at the front of the house.

Mac leans against the wall where Jack stood before, staring out at the sorry excuse for a garden. "Your veggie patch is a mess."

"I know."

"Your cabbages have gone to seed."

"Yes."

"You ought to deliver that pumpkin to Miss Williams. Shame to let it waste. It's enormous."

"Collins will be delighted to take it round, I'm sure."

Mac grins at him and looks out the window again. "I'm not going to change your mind, am I."

"Not tonight, doctor."

She turns the button at her collar, breathing a sigh. Jack follows her lead and does the same. His tie is already draped across the end of the piano bench, long abandoned.

"You really are a very good team together, you know. You can't deny your success rate."

Jack gives her a small smile. "Best partner I've ever had."

She smiles back at him, and there's a satisfied sway to her movement when she turns back to the window. "And there's no denying things are a lot more fun with Phryne around."

"Police business and 'fun' should not necessarily go hand in hand," Jack says, though it's not a flat out denial. Things _are_ more fun with Phryne around. Heaven knows police work can be dark enough to send a man mad; little pleasantries and deliveries of homemade biscuits go a long way to making things more bearable sometimes.

"I'm not trying to deny I'll miss her," he says suddenly. He rubs at the chip in his glass again. "Of course I'll miss her. That's the whole point. That's…" He sighs. "I can choose," he says. "I can choose to distance myself now. Brace myself for whatever comes. Or I can try and keep…" He closes his eyes for a moment, trying to think.

"There's small choice in rotten apples, Jack," Mac says. "If you're so set on the outcome already, is it really so much better to break your own heart before you need to?"

He has no answer, but he doesn't think she expected one.

Mac sets her empty glass down on the windowsill and glances at the clock. "I'm going to bid you good evening. I have an early start."

He drains the rest of his glass and gets to his feet. "Take your whisky," he says. "As I'm sure you'll be visiting Phryne soon, you should share the rest of it with her."

"Fine." She tucks the bottle under her arm and tugs at the open collar of her shirt. "When I see her next, can I tell her to expect you for Friday cocktail hour?"

"No, you may not." Jack leads her to the front door.

"If I have to find a murder victim to bring the two of you together, so help me, I'll do it," she warns.

"Please don't," Jack says, opening the door for her. He hesitates before he says, "I'm sure it won't come to that." 

Mac puts her hat on, making an elaborate show of straightening it and tweaking the brim so it tips just so. "Pick up the telephone and call her, then," she says.

Jack is distracted by his own unsteady balance. He grips the door handle a little tighter. "Are you — can I arrange for someone to take you home?"

"No need," she answers, marching cleanly off his front step without so much as a sway or stagger. "There's a cab waiting for me already."

Jack glances out to the street and meets Bert's narrowed gaze, his lips clamped around a burned-out cigarette. Cec raises his hand in a slight wave and nods at him.

Jack nods back and watches Mac haul herself up into the cab. "Don't stare, Albert," she says.

"Wasn't," Bert argues. He mutters something Jack can't hear from this distance, shaking his head before he pulls the cab out into the street again. They disappear around the corner, and Jack listens to them rattle away until he can't hear the engine anymore; until it blends into the rest of the traffic noise.

He glances up at the orange sky. The sunset is beautiful, the evening air warm. Perfect for a late stroll.

He turns his back on all of it and closes the door behind him again, standing with his hands in his pockets and listening to the clock tick.

 _Pick up the telephone_ , Mac had said. _Phryne's completely miserable_ , she had said.

Jack's sure that's not true. Phryne Fisher is too passionate to be miserable. Too passionate and too hot-headed and too wild to sit and mourn for a man who has spent his entire life being cautious. A man who walks the beaten path and rarely strays.

With a little effort, he convinces himself he's unlikely to catch Miss Fisher at home anyway. Likely she'll be out, at dinner or dancing; at a party with lights and music and fine wine.

Or perhaps she's out leaping across rooftops, hauling herself over brick walls and wire fences, trespassing on private property in a well-meaning attempt to get to the bottom of something she finds suspicious. A hundred miles an hour, blades in her stocking tops and a gold revolver in her purse, breathless and exhilarated by close calls and danger.

Jack draws in a breath and lets it out again slowly. He walks past the telephone and back to the sitting room.

It will, he thinks, take a murder victim after all.

 

* * *

 

 


End file.
